Free Web NovelChapter 21: The Illusion of Control
For the first time Vince looked directly into the eyes of Duke Owen.
The atmosphere inside the subterranean basalt chamber shifted instantly. It wasn’t the wild, explosive kinetic pressure that Moira had unleashed in the courtyard, nor was it the toxic, suffocating miasma of Rin’s plague magic. The Duke’s aura was cold, ancient, and quietly absolute. It was the crushing weight of institutional power made manifest—the presence of a man who had spent decades commanding the fates of hundreds of thousands of lives with a single stroke of a pen.
Even with his newly minted Tier 3 attributes, Vince felt a phantom weight pressing down on his chest, a subtle warning system in his mind flashing a yellow alert. I’ve got to find a way out of here, Vince thought, his mind spinning behind a mask of unbothered calm. The black-iron is dampening my internal flow, and I can’t stay chained in the dark forever while he holds all the cards.
Duke Owen stepped closer, the heels of his polished leather boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. He stopped just outside of Vince’s physical reach, his grey eyes analyzing the matted hair, the torn robes, and the steady, unblinking violet gaze of his captive.
"Finally," the Duke spoke, his voice a smooth, low baritone that filled the quiet room. "The no-talent who threatens my territorial authority. I hear the commoners and the academy staff call you Vince. Tell me, boy—what is your last name?"
Vince slowly tilted his head up, his neck muscles straining against the taut pull of the chains. He kept his expression perfectly neutral, his upgraded perception working overtime to read the micro-expressions on the Duke’s face, searching for a crack in the aristocratic armor, a hint of his true motives or immediate intentions.
"It’s just Vince," he replied smoothly, his voice a low rasp. "Men like me don’t get the luxury of a family crest, Your Grace. I thought a man of your status would know that."
Duke Owen let out a short, dismissive breath from his nose, his lips thinning. "Very well then. A nameless upstart playing at being a king."
"That begs the question, doesn’t it?" Vince leaned forward as much as the black-iron shackles would allow, the metal links groaning in protest. "What exactly do you stand to gain by keeping me alive? You’re a Duke. I’ve slaughtered a significant number of your elite troops, broke one of your four legendary commanders, and openly mocked your banner. Why didn’t your men just take my head in the courtyard? Why bring me here?"
The Duke turned his back to Vince, taking a slow walk toward the edge of the chamber before turning around to face him again, his hands clasped firmly behind his waist. "You threaten my absolute authority, disrupt the territorial economy, butcher my vanguard, and now you have the audacity to ask what I stand to gain by preserving your life? Well, young man, I shall answer your query with a simple question of my own: what do you think?"
Vince let out a cold, sharp chuckle, the sound echoing hollowly off the basalt walls. "I think you’re terrified, Your Grace. You look at me and you don’t understand what you see. You don’t know what life is like on the receiving end of relentless scorn and mockery. You’ve never spent a single second living life like a piece of lowly, dispensable street trash. A man born in silk will never truly comprehend what it means to survive in a world where you simply do not fit in—where the system itself is built to crush you into dust."
Vince’s violet eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous intensity. "I only came after your territory because of your position. With the authority you wield, I could actually change the systemic landscape of this region. I needed a platform, and you happened to be sitting on it. No hard feelings, of course. It’s just business."
The silence stretched for a long beat before Duke Owen suddenly threw his head back, a loud, booming burst of laughter echoing through the subterranean vault.
"Hahaha... you truly are a funny one, aren’t you?" the Duke said, his laughter cutting off instantly as his expression turned ice-cold. The sheer, suffocating density of his aura flared outward, causing the torches in the room to flicker violently. "I can only begin to imagine where your absurd confidence stems from, boy. Thinking a magicless commoner could ever come close to taking down a High Duke such as myself. It is an entertaining delusion."
The Duke stepped forward, his eyes narrowing into twin slits of steel as he leaned in close to Vince’s face. "But it begs me to ask... what level of ancient artifact are you hiding?"
"Artifact?" Vince replied, his voice dripping with genuine, carefully manufactured confusion.
`[System Warning: High-level hostile intent detected. Target’s lethal thresholds are shifting.]`
"Do not play the fool with me," Duke Owen hissed, his hand resting on the ornate hilt of his rapier. "A commoner with a completely blank mana affinity cannot dismantle a vanguard army using physical reinforcement alone. It is fundamentally impossible by the laws of continental magic. You are using a hidden, high-tier relic. Likely a Sovereign-class or Divine-tier relic that bypasses traditional sensory arrays."
The Duke held up two fingers, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "You have exactly two options left to you, kid. You give me the activation sequence for the artifact, or you die in this hole. The choice is yours."
Vince looked at the Duke’s fingers, then back up to his eyes. A slow, reckless smile played at the corners of his lips. "I truly wish I knew what artifact you speak of, Your Grace. But I don’t. Everything I am, everything I’ve done... it belongs entirely to me."
Duke Owen stared at him for a long, silent moment, searching for a tell, a tremor of fear, a hint of deceit. Finding nothing but absolute, terrifying certainty in the boy’s violet eyes, the Duke exhaled heavily, turning on his heel.
"I see," the Duke said coldly, marching toward the heavy iron-reinforced doors. "You’ve made your choice, young man. Not a wise one, I must add. Enjoy your remaining hours in the dark."
The heavy iron doors slammed shut with a deafening, metallic thrum, leaving Vince once again suspended in the dim, basalt chamber. Alone in the quiet, Vince’s brain began working overtime. His perception scanned every link of the black-iron chains, mapping out the structural layout of the room. He didn’t have much time. He needed to find the perfect combination of system purchases to shatter these restraints the moment the guards changed shifts.
---
Meanwhile, Duke Owen left the subterranean complex, his mind weighed down by the interrogation. He walked through the heavily guarded, opulent corridors of his temporary residence—the sprawling Bishop’s Mansion—and eventually reached his master bedroom.
The chamber was an absolute marvel of aristocratic luxury. It was a massive, sweeping room centered around a grand, expensive bed constructed from rare, imported midnight-oak; if beds came in limited, royal editions, this masterpiece would undoubtedly be among the top of the line, draped in the finest high-thread-count silks from the eastern territories. The smooth, shining wooden floors reflected the ambient golden glow of the crystal sconces mounted along the walls. The ceiling featured incredibly intricate, hand-carved floral moldings that blended seamlessly into delicate pastel wall designs depicting historical triumphs of the Owen lineage. A subtle, sweet scent of imported lavender and spiced vanilla hung heavily in the air, thoroughly ventilating the space.
To the right of the massive bed, a tall, arched stained-glass window stood open, allowing a gentle, cool evening breeze to freely circulate through the room, rustling the heavy velvet curtains. It was, by all accounts, a scene explicitly designed for luxury and quiet seduction.
"Welcome back, sweetie," a soft, melodic voice called out.
Sitting on the edge of the sprawling bed was Owen’s wife, Duchess Emily. Her voice carried a naturally angelic, smooth cadence that immediately drew the Duke’s eyes. Two elite royal guards stood stationed outside the double doors as usual, their presence ensuring absolute privacy within the inner sanctum.
"Was the boy successfully secured?" Emily asked, tilting her head as she watched her husband enter.
"Yes, honey," the Duke muttered, unclasping his heavy, fur-lined ceremonial cloak and tossing it onto an ornate chaise lounge near the door. He unbuttoned the top collar of his tunic, exhaling a long, weary sigh.
But as he turned his full attention back toward the bed, the stress of the interrogation instantly melted away, replaced by a sudden surge of prideful satisfaction.
"My God... do you look absolutely delicious tonight," Owen said, his eyes widening as he took a hard, lustful stare at his wife.
Emily was a woman of striking, undeniable beauty. She possessed a refined, classic structure with dreamy, elegant curves and pronounced hips that accentuated her fair, porcelain skin. Her long, lush brown hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, framing a face with striking blue eyes that seemed to hold a permanent, playful secret. Tonight, she wore a delicate, see-through silver lingerie set—a color chosen deliberately to mirror the iconic silver-streaked hair of the Duke’s lineage. She looked like an ethereal dream, completely aware of the intoxicating effect she held over her husband.
"Wanna have a taste?" Emily said with a low, inviting purr, rising from the silk sheets. She stepped toward him, gracefully letting the sheer silver garment slip from her shoulders, pooling around her ankles on the polished wooden floor.
"Like I could ever refuse such an offer," Owen said, his voice thickening with immediate desire. He rushed forward, completely discarding his noble decorum as he pulled her into his arms, taking her lips in for a long, deep, and forceful kiss.
He lifted her onto the expensive midnight-oak bed with rough, impatient hands, his grip digging into her ass as he shoved her thighs apart. Driven by a desperate need to reclaim control after that irritating encounter with the commoner, Owen—always the dominant force in boardrooms and battlefields—fucked like a man possessed. There was no teasing, no foreplay, no patience. He freed his thick, aching cock from his trousers, already rock-hard and leaking, and drove into her in one brutal thrust.
Emily gasped at the sudden stretch, her pussy clenching around his girth more from reflex than arousal. She was barely wet, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He rutted into her with frantic, heavy strokes—deep, erratic pumps that slapped his hips against her ass. His hands squeezed her breasts, pinching her nipples too hard as he grunted and growled against her neck, entirely focused on chasing his own release. There was no rhythm, no attention to her clit, no effort to build her pleasure. Just raw, selfish fucking.
She kept her eyes half-closed, murmuring soft, practiced moans and words of encouragement against his shoulder—"Yes, my love... just like that"—out of long marital habit. Inside, she felt nothing but detached boredom. His cock pistoned in and out of her cunt for a few short, frantic minutes before his pace stuttered. With a heavy, guttural groan, Owen buried himself to the hilt and came hard, flooding her pussy with thick, hot spurts of cum. His body shuddered once, twice, then collapsed heavily on top of her, face-down in the silk pillows, chest heaving as he immediately slipped into a deep, snoring sleep. His spent cock softened and slipped out of her, leaving a sticky trail of his seed leaking down her thighs.
Emily lay motionless beneath his weight for a long moment, staring at the ornate ceiling in the dim golden lamplight. The cool evening breeze drifted through the open window, chilling the sweat on her skin and the mess between her legs. She let out a long, silent sigh of deep dissatisfaction.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, she slid out from under his heavy arm. She sat up, gazing down at the sleeping Duke with a mix of lingering affection and quiet resentment. He could conquer armies, yet he couldn’t even make her cum.
Reaching into the ambient mana around her, Emily silently summoned a small, shimmering rift to her private subspace pocket. From it, she drew out her secret indulgence: a beautifully crafted, heavily enchanted crystalline dildo. It was thick, veined, and perfectly curved, its surface warm and humming with a soft, non-magical pulse designed specifically to stimulate her most sensitive spots. The realistic head flared, and the shaft was ridged exactly where she needed it.
Leaning back against the velvet headboard, far from Owen’s rumbling snores, Emily spread her legs wide. She was still slick with her husband’s cum. She pressed the thick crystal cock against her entrance and pushed it in slowly, savoring the stretch as it filled her neglected pussy. A soft, shaky breath escaped her lips. She began to fuck herself with it—long, deliberate strokes at first, then faster, angling it to grind against her g-spot while her other hand found her swollen clit.
Her eyes fluttered closed. Her mind drifted far away from the snoring Duke beside her. She imagined strong hands that actually knew what they were doing, a cock that could stay hard and relentless, a mouth that would devour her cunt until she screamed. Her hips rocked against the toy as she pumped it deeper, faster, the wet sounds of her arousal barely audible over Owen’s snores. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, building quickly. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm
With a quiet, trembling gasp, Emily came hard. Her pussy clenched rhythmically around the thick crystal shaft, juices mixing with her husband’s cum as waves of sharp, shuddering pleasure ripped through her. She bit her lip to stay silent, thighs quivering, toes curling into the sheets until the orgasm finally ebbed.
Breathing hard, she eased the glistening toy out of her soaked cunt and dissolved it back into her hidden subspace with a flick of her fingers. She pulled the silk sheets up over her body, turned her back to her husband, and closed her eyes.
As sleep began to pull her under, one final, aching thought lingered: Just once... I wish Owen could actually fuck me properly. With that quiet, desperate wish echoing in her mind, the breeze carried her into a restless slumber.
